


Unfinished Letters

by phandomoftheowl, Sairandhri



Category: Mahabharata - Vyasa, Star Plus Mahabharat, महाभारत | Mahabharat (TV 2013)
Genre: Angst, Emotionally Constipated Boys, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:44:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1647467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phandomoftheowl/pseuds/phandomoftheowl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sairandhri/pseuds/Sairandhri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after his parents thirteen year exile comes to an end, Sutasom tries to write them a letter. Tries being the key word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished Letters

Sutasom stares at the parchment, willing the quill to move across the blank pages of its own accord. He had thought it wouldn't be so difficult when Maata Subhadra told him to write a letter to his parents to be delivered by Mamashri.

He sighs.

What do you say to someone who you have only the vaguest memory of?

Sutasom takes a peek at his other brothers. Abhimanyu is the only one doubled over, furiously scratching away at his parchment. He looks at Satanik beside him, who seems to be doodling nonsensical patterns on his wrist. The ink drips off his skin and onto the parchment below, dotting it with messy splotches. 

He heaves another sigh, earning a dirty glance from Srutakirti. “If you’re just going to sit around sighing, then at least don’t do it so close to my face. Your breath smells.”

Sutasom makes a face at his younger brother and goes out to the balcony, taking his writing equipment with him. It’s a familiar view, the gardens, the occasional peacock, and beyond that, the vast ocean. Dwarka is a phenomenal place, so different from Kampilya and it’s landlocked palace that never quite felt like home. If Sutasom were to choose which he liked more, he would say Dwarka unreservedly, but there are times like now where he misses Indraprastha. Moments where old memories flash through his mind and he remembers his first palace with its magic woven into every brick, every door. He doesn’t even know if they are truly his memories or memories his mind conjured up listening to Subhadra Maata’s stories. 

He leans against the parapet, holding down the parchment on one corner, and places the ink bottle on the other corner. Should he talk about his day? Or perhaps about the new spear he mastered. Maybe he’ll tell them about the prank Srutakirti, Mama Balram, and he played on Mama Krishna and Pradyumna two days ago. Yes, that’s a good place to start. A story where he does not have to talk about himself too much. 

A few minutes later, he looks at the scant few lines he has written down and thinks to himself, okay, now what? The language sounds too… stiff. Formal. Is this what letters to one’s parents are supposed to sound like? Absently, he thinks of his letters to Uncle Dhrishtadyumna, remembers the fondness he felt as he penned them. The realisation that he sees his uncle as more of a parent than his actual parents is -- not as surprising as it should be. 

That does little to ease the hollow feeling in his chest, though. The first thing that comes to his mind when he thinks of his parents is not love, but respect -- cold and distant -- and grudging admiration. His birth parents, Samragyi Draupadi and Vayuputra Bheem, have come to symbolize a goal for him. When he studies, he studies with the goal of outwitting enemies in war; when he practises, he practises with the aim of avenging his mother’s insult; his every breath, every flex of muscle is focused on the singular purpose that has been ingrained in his bones, all of their bones. Whenever he yearns for his mother’s lap, he practises doubly hard; whenever he wishes for his father’s reassuring hand on his shoulder, he spends more time in the _malbhavan_. His mace has become his constant companion. His callused hands never really had time to hold rattles. 

In a way he envies Abhimanyu, who always has unconditional love for all their parents. Who never sits around brooding, wondering if their parents truly love them or if they, like so many princes and princesses, were just an obligation. Abhimanyu is certain of his place in their hearts, it is clear in his every motion, the way he holds his sword, the way he speaks of them, they way he does not shy away from Maata Subhadra’s stories. Sutasoma has no such luxury.

The curtains behind him rustle and Sutasom is pulled out of his thoughts by Srutakirti joining him on the balcony. 

“Having trouble concentrating in there?” 

Sutasom shrugs. Concentration is not the problem and they both know it, perhaps better than their other brothers, who always appear unaffected by their parents absence. Or maybe they are just not as good actors as the others. They both remember the painting Srutakirti had painted for Maata Draupadi a few years ago. It was a beautiful painting, full of vivid colors and warmth. He planned on giving it to their parents on one of their rare visits to the forest. 

Except, that hadn’t happened. Mamashri had come to them later that evening and told them their parents had moved on from their previous location. They would have to wait another year to visit. Srutakirti had stalked ahead to their rooms, feet pounding angrily against the marble, and locked them all out. When he opened the doors again, his painting was nowhere to be seen. 

“You know, yesterday was the last day,” Srutakirti points out, staring at the early morning sun. 

“Yes. Last day and then who knows how many days spent travelling other kingdoms for allies and friends.” Sutasom gestures at the gardens. “They won’t be coming here any time soon.” They won’t be coming for _us_ any time soon, goes unsaid. 

“Your endless optimism is uplifting as always, brother.”

“Shut up,” Sutasom says, shoving lightly at his brother, who shoves back with a teasing smile, knocking Sutasom’s hand into the inkwell. The ink spills over the parchment, all over his words, all over the effortfully conjured emotions.

Srutakirti freezes. “I -- sorry.”

Balling the soggy parchment in his fist, Sutasom smiles wryly. “Don’t be. It was awful anyhow.” He tosses the parchment in a waste basket by the balcony. 

They rejoin their brothers, the relative quiet suddenly disturbed by Abhimanyu throwing his hands in the air with a loud “Done!” just as the guards announce Mama Krishna and Maa Subhadra. 

Sutasom’s brothers all rise, joining their hands for _pranam_.

Krishna smiles warmly. “Yashasvi Bhava.”

“Sons, you should go and get your weaopns now,” Subhadra says, smiling.

Sutasom stops breathing. It can’t be...

Srutakarma says what they’re all thinking -- hoping, “We are going to meet Maata Draupadi and pitashri, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are,” says Krishna, glancing at Srutakirti and Sutasom knowingly. 

The boys look at each other. Finally, Sutasom thinks, chest fluttering hopefully.

They are half way out the door when Krishna says, “And Abhimanyu, wear your best armour.”

Abhimanyu tilts his head, bemused. “Why?”

Maa Subhadra giggles. “You have in laws to impress, son.”

Abhimanyu’s eyes widen comically, and Sutasom can’t help but laugh. This trip is turning out to be more entertaining than he had imagined. 

His eye catches the waste basket as he trails his brothers out the door and he smiles to himself. 

There will be no more unfinished letters for him from now on.

**Author's Note:**

> All names of Uppandavs taken from wiki. 
> 
> Our Tumblrs: [sairandhri](http://nirantar.tumblr.com/) || [phandomoftheowl](http://phandomoftheowl.tumblr.com/)


End file.
